


Le Garçon et le Chien

by MDJensen



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Dogs, Gen, Modern AU, Pets, athos is a big ball of love and squish basically just disguised as a total grump, boys as flatmates, tiny flares of angst but mostly fluff i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 21:30:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3355961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“A dog will teach you unconditional love. If you can have that in your life, things won't be too bad.” —Robert Wagner</p><p>Athos gets a puppy. Modern AU. Tags will be added with new chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Le Garçon et le Chien

**Author's Note:**

> Title adapted from Edith Piaf's song, "La Fille et le Chien".

It's going to be a bad day.

Athos wakes to the rising light behind the sheer curtains, remembers, and immediately scrambles to fall back asleep. He can't. A heavy, hollow ache rolls over his body like fog, and in response to his sorrow his head begins to pound and his stomach begins to shift queasily. He shimmies deeper under the blankets. If he could just stay-- just stay here, maybe even fall back asleep-- if he could just _not_ get out of bed today, he'd be fine. Yesterday was fine. Tomorrow will be fine. Today is all he needs to worry about; it's today that's fucked.

It's today that's his anniversary.

At least it should have been.

He drags himself out of bed eventually. In a way he's grateful that it's Saturday, because nobody will expect anything from him today; but on the other hand it's an agony to be so-- undistracted. Left to his own devices. Maybe he'll power through the sink full of dishes to occupy his mind, or maybe he'll go get a bottle of wax and shine the floors.

Or maybe he'll pass the day in a drunken haze and end up with his head in the toilet by sundown.

Whichever he's going to do, he should shower first.

Afterwards, in a fresh set of pyjamas with his hair a damp tangle, Athos knows how pathetic he looks and yet can't ignore the still-slightly-unfamiliar urge to not be alone. Eyes to the ground, he slips out to the living room.

His friends either remember the date, or simply sense his mood. They give him his space as he folds himself up in a corner of the sofa and switches on the news, but as the morning wears on they tend to him in their own quiet ways. Porthos makes him tea, and toast with raspberry jam. Aramis perches on the sofa behind him, now and again working a tiny braid into his unkempt hair then tugging it free again.

Food calms his stomach. And Aramis' fingers, however absurd their ministrations, calm his breathing, though at the center of it all his heart still aches incisively. He pulls the afghan around his shoulders. If this is how the day is to pass-- cozy if not content, his friends at hand-- that will be fine. That will be better than a lot of other possibilities.

It's just around one when Aramis decides it isn't good enough.

“Let's get lunch,” he blurts suddenly, pushing abruptly up from where he'd settled, at the opposite end of the sofa from Athos.

Porthos glances at Athos and replies diplomatically, “had a long week. I don't mind stayin' in today.”

“C'mon. I just got paid and I don't want anything I've got in.”

“An' this is why you're always broke.”

But Aramis wins, somehow-- he usually seems to-- and Athos finds himself dressed and heading into town, first for pizza, then for coffee, and after that for _just a few quick errands_. Aramis is trying to distract him, which he appreciates. Distantly. In a way that actually means he'd really like for him to stop.

It's hard to explain how exhausting it is to be sad, and as Aramis leads them around town Athos sways with the effort of not being home in bed. He's shivery and achy and utterly drained. Whenever they stop he finds himself caught between the desire to rest his head on Porthos' shoulder and seek a spare bit of affection, and the knowledge that this is not a thing he should actually do. He's pathetic enough as it is.

It's late afternoon by the time Aramis seems satisfied. _Homeward bound_ , he says-- until he catches sight of a pet store with an adoption center, and _homeward bound_ becomes _one more stop_.

Athos sighs, resigned to his fate. He trails his friends to the back of the shop, where Aramis is already charming the two volunteers that are working the puppy play area into letting a few out at once. Porthos, who has stayed mostly at his side so far, is won over. The next thing Athos knows, both of them are behind the windows of the little enclave, plopped onto the floor with four or five dogs vying for their affections.

He could leave. He's a grown man and there's no actual reason he needs to wait for his friends to finish their _errands_ , especially since his friends are also his roommates and he'll see them soon enough anyway. Instead he crosses his arms and leans heavily against a display of collars.

“Hey!”

Athos' head snaps up instinctively, just in time to see a little dustbunny of a dog escape the confines of the play area. It seems to be heading for the front of the shop. Athos lunges into its path, trying to decide the safest way of grabbing it-- but rather than evade him as Athos had been expecting, the dog barrels right into him and comes to a dead stop, tail wagging.

“Oh,” is all Athos can think to say. The dog-- the puppy-- is blueish black with patches of silver climbing up between its ears and spreading over his back. Its ears are huge and droopy. Its eyes are big and brown and bright and _smart_ as it stares up at Athos, and then opens its mouth and lets out a rather demanding _woof_.

_Spaniel_ , says some part of Athos' brain that apparently carries such information-- but there's more than one kind of those, isn't there? 

“Hello?” Athos ventures, and the puppy rears to its hind legs. Its front paws skitter insistently at Athos' knees, tail going so fast that it makes a sound against the tile floor. “You should go back inside,” Athos tells it. “I don't think you're meant to be out here.”

It doesn't respond-- not that he expected it to, of course-- just keeps thwacking its tail and panting expectantly. Athos crouches down beside it. He isn't quite sure what he means to do, but the puppy takes his proximity as an invitation and begins to shove itself gleefully against him, and there is a moment in which he's sure he'll be toppled by something weighing less than a stone.

Athos glances up. Porthos and Aramis are grinning at him from inside the play area, and one of the volunteers gives him a thumbs up and a quizzical expression. He nods. The situation is under control; he's fairly sure the puppy won't make a break for it as long as it's getting attention from him. He scoops it up. It begins to wiggle fiercely, so much so that he clutches it against his chest for fear of losing his grip. 

The puppy is very warm and smells fresh, perhaps like talcum powder. It nuzzles its nose against Athos' chin, panting lightly against his neck; switching to cradle it in one arm, he brings his free hand up to scratch between its ears.

All eyes are on him as he returns the dog to the play area. Aramis looks as though Christmas has come early; Porthos' expression is softer but no less joyous. The volunteers look perplexed. “It's all right,” Athos assures them, depositing the puppy gently on the ground. “Didn't get far.”

“He _likes_ you,” one of the volunteers marvels, smiling. “That one never takes to anyone but us. He's been here for months already. Too shy for adoption.”

“Shy?” Porthos prompts, turning around to glance at the dog who's currently gnawing-- ever so gently-- on Athos' shoe.

“One of the shyest I've seen-- least 'til today.”

“Play with him, Athos,” Aramis prompts. “Wallflowers need to stick together.”

It's hard to imagine the puppy as anything other than a friendly, energetic thing, but still the notion that it-- he-- has been living in the shelter for months now tugs insistently at Athos' heart. There's an empty chair, and he sinks down into it. The puppy wiggles between his hands as he plucks him carefully from the floor and cradles him to his chest, then lets loose a barrage of licks and nips the moment he's within range of Athos' face. 

“Cheese,” Aramis cries, and there's a camera flash. Porthos takes the phone to see the picture and nods in approval, and Athos ignores them in favor of snuggling the dog against his chest and burying his face in his fur. It's as though they're not used to seeing him happy. Which is silly, because he's not a typically miserable man-- only on special occasions. 

Apparently Athos is doing too much thinking and not enough petting, because the dog yips loudly and begins butting his head against Athos' hand. Athos does as he's told, begins at once to scratch between the ears again. Satisfied, the puppy slides down from Athos' chest into Athos' lap instead, and stretches himself out, belly bared trustingly. 

There's something altogether soothing about petting him. Before too long Athos feels his hand begin to slow, realizes that his eyelids are slipping a bit closer to one another. He lets the doze wash over him. 

A hand on his shoulder rouses him some time later, and Athos blinks awake to find his chin on his chest and the puppy curled protectively against Athos' own midsection, fast asleep. “Wakey wakey,” Aramis teases, and Athos' heart sinks. They're leaving; it's time to say goodbye. 

He looks down at the puppy, so content in his lap, and is overtaken by stomach-deep worry: when will he be adopted?  _Will_ he be adopted? What if he's adopted by someone who doesn't like to play with him, or forgets to feed him, or  _hits him_ when he makes a mess? Tears blur Athos' eyes at the thought of the little puppy's sadness, and he braces himself for the moment that he'll have to lean forward and pluck the creature off his lap.

Aramis, perhaps sensing his hesitation, does him the mercy. Without preamble, he scoops the dog up and pulls him away; Athos hangs his head, too tired and miserable to well school his disappointment. Then Porthos-- laughs? Does he truly look so pathetic?

Athos glances up; Porthos is gazing back at him fondly. “You don't really think we'd allow it, do you?” he smirked.

“I'm sorry?”

Then Aramis curses. “Bloody little critter-- hold him, Athos, I can already tell which one of us he's not going to pay any mind to--”

Still frazzled, Athos accepts the puppy back into his arms; the dog ceases his squirming at once, allowing Aramis to finish slipping him into a tiny yellow collar. Then Porthos leans forward and hooks on a matching leash.

“What's this?” Athos asks, dully.

“In case he tries to run away, obviously,” Aramis replies, in a manner that suggests Athos might be a bit dim. “Not that I think it'll be a problem. Pair of magnets, you two. Jesus, are you even going to let him walk?”

“Weren't not-- we can't--”

“We can and we did,” Porthos replies.

“We can't have a dog,” Athos says, hoping that the lump in his throat isn't as audible as it feels.

“Nothing in the lease about it.”

“I can't have a dog,” he corrects, eyes fixed on the puppy's tiny paws, its big round eyes.

“If you were allergic, I think you'd've passed out by now.”

“I've never had one,” Athos protests. “I've never had a pet. My parents never let me.”

“Mm. Telling,” Aramis remarks dryly, then claps Athos on the back. “You know that thing you were doing? Where you played with him and made him happy? Do that, but constantly, and also feed him and walk him and pick up his shit.”

“We already paid the fee,” Porthos adds. “Happy early birthday, by the way. Now can we get out of here before we end up on the internet? You already look so pitiful they waived the twenty-four hour waiting period.”

Aramis giggles. “Grown ass man falls asleep in puppy play area. Given how damn cute you are, that'd go viral pretty fast.”

Athos blinks, on the cusp of belief but not quite over the edge yet. “Are you all right with this?” he whispers, nose-to-nose with the little dog. The dog yips, the tone of it distinctly affirmative.

“We--” Athos begins.

“--need food?” Aramis finishes, holding up a plastic bag with the name of the store printed clearly on the side.

“And--”

“--toys?” Porthos suggests, smiling. “We're covered.”

“I--”

“You're welcome,” Aramis says firmly, and that's how Athos ends up with a dog. It's all a bit of a blur, to be honest, and before he knows it he's carrying the puppy across the threshold of the store and out onto the street, and there's this feeling of _joy_ trying to take root in his chest, upended only by the fear that this isn't real.

But it is. Porthos and Aramis flank him, as they customarily do, and in his arms there's a little fluffy creature, attached to a harness that's attached to a leash that's looped loosely around his wrist.

“I don't understand,” Athos says eventually, as the downtown area falls away and apartment buildings loom up around them.

“We were worried,” Aramis explains, “that there may have been some lasting emotional damage if that dog did not come home with us today.”

“For the dog as well,” Porthos adds, in case Aramis' meaning was not in itself clear.

“What kind of a dog is he?” Athos asks, instead of responding.

“One of the people there thinks he's a mutt. But the other's convinced he's a blue picardy spaniel.”

Athos can't help but smile a little at that, smirking down at the wriggly fluffball that doesn't seem to know he's descended from such a sophisticated-sounding breed.

“I was right. You're a spaniel,” Athos murmurs, and the dog gives a little noise that Athos can't quite place. A titter? A chortle?

“He likes the sound'a your voice,” Porthos chuckles. “You'll have to start talkin' more.”

“I talk plenty,” Athos rebuts, “you mean I'll have to start chattering purposelessly. Like you two.” He's not offended by Porthos' jibe, so much as looking for an opportunity to test the theory, and it seems to hold true. The creature gives his happy little huff once again. He butts his head up against Athos' chin as his tail beats a frantic thump against Athos' arm.

He does. He likes the sound of Athos' voice.

Which is lovely, because Athos likes the sound of him in turn.

“What are you going to call him?” Porthos asks.

That trips him up a bit. He hadn't gotten that far.

“It's a French breed,” Aramis puts in. “You're the francophile.”

Athos forgoes his typical retort-- he isn't a _francophile_ , he's the son of a French ex-pats, raised bilingual and to some extent bicultural-- and instead suggests, “ _chien_?”

Aramis actually stops walking for a moment before catching up. “You are not naming your dog _dog_. Jesus, I shouldn't have to even say that.”

“ _Chou_?”

“I don't know what that means, but it sounds like you're sneezing.”

“ _Samedi_?” Athos asks. It's a Saturday, after all. Naming him after the day they met might be nice--

His friends' faces say everything; he changes his course.

“Piaf?”

“Peanut?” Porthos questions, but Aramis smiles as Athos corrects him.

“Christ, after Edith Piaf?” Aramis shakes his head as Porthos shrugs cheerfully. “French broad. Did that song from _Inception_? Yeah? But you know, this hipster here will tell you he liked her long before that.”

“Well, I did,” Athos replied quietly. “She was my mother's favorite singer.”

“'m callin' him Peanut if you call him that.”

“Then you're calling him Peanut, I suppose,” Athos replies mildly, because the name has stuck like well-cooked spaghetti. Piaf. _Piaf_. He has a dog now, and the dog's name is Piaf.

He lets him down to walk eventually, mostly because Aramis keeps laughing about it. But by that time they're nearly home anyway. Piaf sniffs tentatively at the bottom step, then romps up the rest as though he's lived there his whole life.

At the door to the apartment, Athos pauses. This is a moment, he realizes, a snippet of time that he's going to remember, and he finds himself smiling because he hasn't had one of those in a while. He wants to say  _welcome_ , but that seems a bit sappy. Instead he pushes the door open and Piaf glances up at him as though asking if he should step inside.

Athos nods. “This is home,” he says, and his attempt to not be sappy falls utterly short, even to his own ears. Piaf steps across the threshold and barks politely.

Grinning, Athos enters behind him, kicking at the door to let his friends though as well. Just a few hours ago he'd slunk out that door with an aching body and a heavy soul. Now he unhooks the leash from Piaf's collar and watches the puppy scamper around the living room, taking it all in.

Soon Aramis begins to fill him in on all the information he literally slept through. Piaf is seven months old, male, not yet neutered; his temperament has been noted as  _reserved but affectionate_ .

“Hey-hey,” Porthos cries, “just like Athos!” He's sitting on the floor in the middle of the kitchen, skittering his fingertips around on the tile so that Piaf chases the sound.

“And of indeterminate breed,” Aramis concludes.

“Hey-hey!” Porthos throws his hands up in the air. “Just like me!”

“We're calling him a blue picardy,” Aramis declares. “Because it sounds fancy. We're also formally disagreeing with the notion that he is reserved.”

Athos has to agree with this disagreement, because at the moment Piaf is prancing about in Porthos' lap, yipping for pets. Porthos obliges eagerly.

Together they set up food and water in a corner of the kitchen; Piaf eats, plays a while longer, and eventually goes to paw at the door. For all that Athos has been worrying about this part, walking a dog is pretty much as easy as it sounds. He takes Piaf up and down the block until he has completed his necessary functions, uses the waste bag he's remembered to bring, and that's about it.

He can do this. He can take care of this dog.

When they return, Aramis is doing the dishes and Porthos is settling down on the sofa with his laptop in his lap. He sticks the earbuds in just as Athos comes through the door.

“Hey!” He calls eagerly, and once Athos has removed Piaf's collar he rushes over to greet Porthos. “'bout to listen to some of your namesake.”

“You're listening to Edith Piaf?” Athos questions, settling himself on the other sofa and patting his knees. Piaf comes traipsing back to him at once.

“Yeah. Seein' as I'm the only one outta the loop.” 

Athos smirks, and is about to go in search of a toy for Piaf, but the puppy chooses that moment to jump up on the sofa and settle into Athos' lap with a yawn. Athos is perfectly content to simply pet him. He strokes his fingers from Piaf's ears to his tail again and again, lost in the soothing rhythm of it, until Porthos breaks the silence with a sudden, gusty sigh. 

Athos looks up as Porthos tugs the earbuds from his ears. There's a look of total dismay on his face, and as Athos prompts him with a raised eyebrow, he shakes his head and sniffles. “Three songs later an' I need a whiskey an' a Kleenex. An' that was with subtitles. She was your mum's favorite singer? She's so _unhappy_.”

“I suppose my mother was an unhappy woman,” Athos muses softly, watching Porthos grab a tissue from the end table and swipe it roughly under his nose before crumpling it into his pocket.

“An' you're gonna name this little darlin' after her?”

Athos struggles to understand his own mind as Porthos asks and receives his wordless permission to pluck Piaf from his lap. The puppy squirms with joy as Porthos holds him aloft.

“I wasn't thinking about the lyrics,” Athos says slowly, “I was thinking about-- when my mother would play her records. Just the two of us would listen. She said it would help me practice my French.” Porthos nods, then chuckles as Piaf gives his cheek a noisy slurp.

Watching Porthos emote so freely-- cry and laugh within the span of a minute-- makes Athos feel bolder, as it always does. “It was this little pocket of light,” he elaborates. “And that's what Piaf is.”

Porthos smiles, this big genuine smile that is nevertheless too soft to be a grin, and bumps his nose against the puppy's. “I can get behind that,” he concedes.

And true enough, Athos already feels a little colder without Piaf in his lap; he reaches his arms out to take him back. He gets more than he asked for. Porthos sets the dog gently in Athos' grasp and then flops down beside the two of them so he can scratch Piaf's head. Piaf yawns widely and settles down on Athos' chest.

And Athos is overcome. A beautiful little puppy is falling asleep against him, while Porthos' breaths come slow and even next to him and somewhere in the background is the sound of Aramis puttering around in the kitchen.

His eyes swell with sudden tears, and he lets them close.

It's been a good day.

**Author's Note:**

> Before anybody asks, no, Piaf is not d'Artagnan.
> 
> Happy Valentines Day.


End file.
